The gates of Arkham creaked open with the slow, deliberate weight of something that didn’t want to be disturbed.

Bruce stood just beyond them, trench coat damp from Gotham rain, tie loosened, jaw tight. He could have sent someone else. He could’ve made a call. But he was here. In person. Because this wasn’t business. This was her.

She stepped out, pale in the overcast light, institutional wristband still clinging to her like a brand. Her eyes—sharp, guarded, tired—met his without flinching.

No one spoke.

They didn’t need to.

He opened the car door, and for a second, her hand hovered at the edge—like she didn’t know if she was allowed to leave.

Then she got in.

Because of all the people in Gotham, Bruce was the only one who came back.

And maybe that meant something.